


Alioramus

by ParadiseParrot



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No War, Babies, Gen, M/M, Mechpreg, SPARKLETS, Transformer Sparklings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-13 21:39:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14121375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadiseParrot/pseuds/ParadiseParrot
Summary: Ratchet and Wheeljack take a step in their relationship. Crossing a river turns out to be leaping a deep chasm, and they rise to the challenge.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alioramus: Latin, meaning "different branch"
> 
> This is a gift for my darling, wonderful friend M!! It was supposed to be for Christmas and it's March, so...I did it! Oops!
> 
> There will be three parts to this, with way more babies on the way >D there is some mentioned spark interface in this, but it's not terribly graphic. This is also a fic with a gestation-tank style emergence rather than the spark stuff I usually write, because I wanted to try something different!
> 
> Please enjoy! Comments are my lifeblood.

“How do you feel about sparklets?” Wheeljack asked.

Ratchet paused. Their apartment was quiet, no guests on and nothing in the holoscreen, traffic whizzing by peacefully outside their huge porch window. They hadn’t put a record on yet. After a moment, he finished pouring Wheeljack's drink.

“I treat them most days,” he said. “I like the newsparks. Less talking back.”

“I meant for us,” Wheeljack said. His audial fins flickered half-strength, tentative. He was angling after something. “Our sparklets. Us having one.”

He was fiddling with something in his lap, some tiny engine he was retooling for a new project. Ratchet crossed the room, setting Wheeljack's drink down next to the plate of energon goodies. Then he dropped down, setting one arm easily across Wheeljack’s shoulders. As always, Wheeljack leaned in, and his engine hummed.

“They’re expensive, and messy, and slow to mature,” Ratchet said. “The purview of the rich. Senators.”

Wheeljack’s optics were smiling. “ _We’re_ rich,” he said. “The Prime's Chief Medical Officer and an engineering fellow at Iacon Academy would be automatically approved.”

Ratchet sipped his drink, quiet enough that Wheeljack started up again.

“You’re gentle with your patients,” Wheeljack said. “Real sweet, you know, once someone’s worked out you’re not really a grouch. And _I_ like kids.”

“Have you been thinking about it?” Ratchet asked. The expense and stress on a carrying spark was high. They were both solidly built frames, close to the ground, but it didn’t mean problems couldn’t arise. He’d seen it all before.

Wheeljack ducked his head—then rested it on Ratchet's chest. “A bit, actually. I've been doing some research.”

Ratchet smiled. “Well, that’s new. Not going in half-cocked with the first blueprints you draft?”

“Well,” Wheeljack said, more mischievously. “I know how to make you say yes, and that’s not the way.”

Ratchet squeezed his leg, right above the knee. That spot made Wheeljack _squeak_ and twitch in a particularly entertaining way, and he shifted closer to Ratchet.

“We’ve got one spare room. Not a lot in it.”

“Already got a supply list going,” Wheeljack said. His spark thrummed close to Ratchet’s, familiar and warm. “I do come prepared.”

* * *

  

The easy part was the application and the fee. They were turned around almost as quickly as a senator's, for parental rights and choice of carrier.

The other easy part was…the part where they ignited. Their doctor (one couldn’t treat themselves, of course) disabled their ground wires and pronounced them both healthy.

And given that their doctor was _Pharma,_ Ratchet was sure he’d be hearing about it in their off hours. His colleague and friend was a consummate professional in that familiar office, but Ratchet knew that gleeful glitter in his optics when he saw it.

Spark merges only got sweeter the more often you did them with one mech. So a merge with Wheeljack was _always_ rich and warm, mischievous and never the same as the last. Ratchet played with the edge of his conjux's corona, listening to the sweet noises Wheeljack made and _feeling_ what it did to him.

“I love you,” Wheeljack murmured, as he always did. His hands, rough from his work, grappled at Ratchet’s back. “God, Ratch, I really do love you.”

Ratchet didn’t answer. Wheeljack knew, felt it right there in the glow of their sparks.

The warm feeling of being together was always the same, but now with a new tinge of excitement. Maybe this had been the time, and even still—skeptical Ratchet could appreciate Wheeljack’s excitement, his talk of names and little faces and how carriage might feel, for either of them.

And Ratchet found himself relieved when the results came back, and a little spark already _had_ ignited. On Wheeljack, a prospect that Ratchet found had been exactly what he wanted.

A good sire took care of their own, after all. And, in all honesty, the whole thing was still unfamiliar enough that he’d rather be on the fussing side.

Even if that carrier he'd be fussing over didn’t quite appreciate it.

“So these are disgusting,” Wheeljack said one morning. Optics narrowed in a grimace, he pushed his cube away. The glowing fuel, shimmering with supplements, certainly still looked the part.

Ratchet, practiced, pushed the cube back into his hands. “Supplements are important, for you _and_ the sparklet. _Especially_ during a first carriage. Drink up.”

Wheeljack looked back at him, optics now mischievous. “I’d rather have what you can give me.”

Ratchet felt his faceplate get hot, so he turned quickly back to his datapad, and the news. Spark energy was not _vital_ to a newspark’s development, but it certainly didn’t do any harm. Carriers almost always wanted that extra closeness to the sire.

“After work,” Ratchet said. He ran one affectionate hand along Wheeljack’s demask, pleased at how it made him straighten up. “I can’t clock in looking _too_ happy.”

“I don’t see why I can’t work a few more months,” Wheeljack said. “Or why I can’t at _least_ rig something up here—”

“Rest,” Ratchet said firmly. “Rest, gentle exercise, and not turning our apartment into a hazmat zone. Catch up on some reading. Play that…game console thing, you picked up once.”

“My hands will start to itch,” Wheeljack said. “You got a cure for that?”

Ratchet stood, though his lips twitched. “You can let them wander once I’m home.”

There was predictable teasing from Pharma at the hospital. “Happy about your _arrangement?_ ” he’d ask mischievously, like it was still the funniest joke he’d ever come up with. Ratchet would huff, and Pharma would chuckle before he went off to his patients.

This was purely in a friendly capacity, of course. Pharma had been Ratchet’s good friend (and boyfriend, for a bit, but that hadn’t worked), and was the only one in this hospital who would even think to joke about it. Wheeljack joined Ratchet every week for a check-up, cheerful and joking with Pharma about how he’d never been so happy to have a heavy spark. Even if he would never let his friend live this down, Pharma was always attentive and thorough in his examinations. Ratchet sat in on them, and expected nothing less—there had been a reason he had ensured Pharma would take care of them.

“A big spark already,” he noted one morning, actually smiling Wheeljack’s way. Pharma didn’t bother with his sterner, prim veneer for Wheeljack, when long ago he’d found it didn’t work. And besides, he was still gleeful with teasing Ratchet. “Have you felt the frame at all?”

“A little,” Wheeljack said, his hands on his midsection. Ratchet had heard the spark on the instruments, but also with his own audials. And that, he figured, was the best way to get a feel for his offspring’s pulse. Not his patient, he reminded himself.

Wheeljack agreed, but their offspring’s life force drummed in his head all day, every day. Now he looked proud, like it was completely his doing that their newspark would be oversized. Ratchet admitted it kind of was.

“We'll be sure to have you in early, to prepare for emergence,” Pharma said. Ratchet knew by spark how the charts probably looked, at this middle stage. “It’s hard enough on your frame with a _regular_ sized baby.”

“You won’t know the real size till they’re here,” Wheeljack said cheerfully.

“You’re not the first carrier he’s treated,” Ratchet said. “His estimate will be close, I guarantee it.”

“ _Close?_ ” Pharma called, now on the other side of his office and gathering yet more supplements. “It’ll be _right,_ my dear Ratchet.”

Wheeljack was cheerful by nature, but moreso with the promise of this newspark on the way. Ratchet, guiltily, realized that maybe he should have noticed his excitement towards the idea earlier. It clearly hadn’t been a whim.

They had plenty of friends to keep Wheeljack busy while he was off work. Good thing, too, or Wheeljack _would_ work, and end up burning the whole building down. The deposit was already forfeit, after the slime cannon incident, but Wheeljack had promised him no further incidents.

Ratchet would take no chances with Wheeljack, or with this newspark he wanted so much.

“It doesn’t have to be _ornate_ ,” he heard Wheeljack saying, coming home one afternoon. Ratchet locked the door, and had to grin at the half-eaten plate of energon goodies out on the counter.

He found Wheeljack, Grapple, and Skyfire sitting in their berthroom, surrounded by the parts of what looked like half a shelf. Wheeljack beamed, sitting between a bemused Skyfire and an extremely focused Grapple.

“They were over for a gossip, but then the storage units arrived and I wanted a look,” Wheeljack said. His optics were bright enough that Ratchet didn’t question how he’d convinced them to help build furniture. Wheeljack’s sweet, earnest nature was half the reason he’d convinced mechs to let him commit crimes _against_ nature in his builds all this time.

Skyfire grinned. “You would think three engineers would make this easier.”

Ratchet huffed. “I’m betting it makes things three times harder.”

“Really, Wheeljack, you two could really up the design on this,” Grapple said, not even looking up. “You could cut the shelves, reset the placement, and the shape contrast would be just stunning.”

“It’s for a baby,” Wheeljack said, probably for the fourth or fifth time. “You have no idea the extra supplies and miscellaneous slag you have to get for these things.”

“And if you didn’t get the shelf, this place would look like your lab,” Skyfire said.

Wheeljack laughed, and widened his optics in such mock horror that Skyfire had to chuckle too.

“My own co-worker! My friend! Speaking to me like this, in my sacred space!”

“I’ll pour you mechs some drinks,” Ratchet said, grinning crookedly at the scene. Wheeljack had always been ridiculous, but carrying had taken him to a new level. He didn’t dislike it.

Their many friends had mostly been excited about the whole business. Perceptor had looked briefly terrified, before offering a hasty congratulations, and Ratchet entertained the thought of plunking their offspring in his lap the first chance he could and study real fear.

Zeta was off on Luna 2, and all Ratchet got was a form note on the Primal letterhead about how he hoped this wouldn’t affect their Chief Medical Officer's work. Ratchet stuck it in a drawer, because Zeta wouldn’t notice if he thanked him anyway.

None of it really mattered. Wheeljack liked the gifts well enough, and loved a chat about the goings-on. But in the carriage's last third, he just wanted to be close to Ratchet.

Ratchet tried to work the early mornings, when Wheeljack was recharging, but he still looked a bit like a sad turbofox when he got in for the day. He certainly didn’t object to long, lazy afternoons curled up, punctuated by spark merges, and he made a point of avoiding overtime. They would both have to get used to being more domestic, anyway.

“Ugh,” Wheeljack sighed, rolling over. His hands rested on his middle, as they did often now. “Ever since the spark dropped, Ratch. Just kicking and wiggling all the way down.”

Ratchet leaned back, and closed his optics. It was easy to feel restful and pleased with Wheeljack resting against him…and no little newspark feet dancing away inside him.

“They’ll be doing plenty of kicking and wiggling when they’re out,” Ratchet said. “Enjoy this while you can, because we won’t have time to rest soon.”

“Good,” Wheeljack said. One hand stroked Ratchet’s face lazily. “I want to meet them. Meet them, _and_ go back to work.”

Ratchet chuckled. “There’s awhile yet before your leave is up. Enjoy it.”

Wheeljack’s headfins flashed a pleased blue, before he curled up closer and hooked one leg over Ratchet. By now the newspark was big, a gentle, invisible weight in Wheeljack’s middle, and he could picture the growth stages from previous patients. They were fully formed now, almost certainly able to live away from Wheeljack's spark. Still, it would be a little more time before emergence, and life would be a flurry of congratulations and lack of recharge and activity.

For now, the spark brought them some peace. And Ratchet could use that.

* * *

 

 

Ratchet was in _surgery_ when he got the call, so he couldn’t take it. It wasn’t even life or death, he could have booked it after this was all over. He could have given it to someone else in the ward, but it was neuro-processor work, and he was no less arrogant and over-booked than he’d always been.

Wheeljack’s comm pinged him with alerts the moment he left the washracks. And even if Wheeljack knew better than to ply him anxiously with messages, because he’d figured out where Ratchet was, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t be waiting for him. When he tried to answer the comms, he found they wouldn’t go through. His spark dropped, and he tried again.

Under Wheeljack's patient comms (when he’d felt the first twinge, that he'd called the transport, and worryingly, to hurry), was one from Pharma.

And there was nothing he needed to interpret from _GET YOUR AFT DOWN HERE!_

The emergence was too early, but he could have _been_ there. Sirens roaring, he drove into the stairwell, and almost tumbled over his own feet transforming and tearing down the stairs. The security detail would greatly enjoy that footage later, but he hardly thought of that as he made it into the newspark ward.

Ratchet managed not to crash through the door, but only because he might alarm the carrier inside. His _conjux,_ more important than any carrier he had ever looked after.

It wasn’t the room they had booked, but Pharma was directing nurses as he should, and Wheeljack was lying on the berth, just as he should be.

“Work?” Wheeljack said, and even in pain there was a grin in his voice. For once Ratchet wasn’t sweeping medical scans over him, wasn’t taking in any of the many machines or readings. There’d be time for that, but he had priorities.

“I told you to be on call,” Pharma said.

“In _two weeks!_ ” Ratchet protested. Wheeljack squeezed his hand with his, like he was the one who needed reassuring.

Pharma was their doctor now, not his friend, and Ratchet had let him handle this because he was the best (the best after him), and because he wouldn’t misstep out of mixing up friendly and professional. He turned back to Wheeljack, resting one hand on his middle.

“They’re early, but they’re big,” Pharma said. Ratchet could guess what he was doing at Wheeljack’s feet, but couldn’t see from his seat. “We’re not in the red, but I'm taking no chances. I don’t want that little spark chamber to rattle.”

Wheeljack winced then, squirming, and Ratchet squeezed his hand through the contraction. A big frame born early had a higher risk of a spark guttering, because the spark might not have caught up. The opposite problem was possible with small frames, whose chambers could burst, but he refused to think about either worst case scenario. Tonight was not his job. It couldn’t be.

“Not too bad yet,” Wheeljack said cheerfully. His hand was tight in Ratchet’s anyway, and they all knew it would get worse. Trust Wheeljack not to act like he was worried about it.

Ratchet sat with his conjux, encouraging him through each contraction and talking quietly with him in between. At some point months ago, while they’d been in recharge, the spark on Wheeljack’s had imbued the protoform in his gestation chamber with life. Wheeljack had felt the first kicks that morning, and almost knocked Ratchet out of the berth in his excitement.

Now there was no gentle movement, no kicking, with Wheeljack’s whole frame putting everything into emergence. On a particularly bad spasm, Wheeljack clicked one optic open.

“At least I won’t have—ugh—little feet pushing on my fuel pump,” he said, because the perfect time for a joke was at the height of emergence.

“No, because you'll have your hands full with them,” Pharma said. He was good at his neutral doctor face, but he couldn’t get it past Ratchet. “This little scrap is on their way out, but they’re positioned poorly. I'll have to turn them.”

Ratchet felt a frightened rush, already looking ahead to thoughts of Wheeljack damaged and leaking out, of their newspark in intensive care or worse. He looked at Pharma, who flared his optics as if they could shoot lasers and vaporize him on the spot.

“One more real push, Wheeljack. I know you’re tired, but you need to get them out.”

Wheeljack gasped, straining, and Ratchet was already getting damage reports of the dents in his hands. He knew what Pharma was probably doing, but he couldn’t _see_ the precision movements that would get their offspring out alive, but to jump in now would probably do more harm than good.

Then they became a carrier and sire.

Their newspark was lifted, and Ratchet caught sight of grey and red plating (expected), blazing red optics (surprising, but not unusual, and perfectly bright), and…

…well, there was nothing in their CNA that should have predicted those plate pieces of armour, the jagged audial fins. The vestigial claws on their shoulders, not quite developed.

Ratchet swallowed his shock, but not before he exchanged a look with Pharma. This was why he'd have Pharma, and no one else, delivering his newspark—professionalism, because Pharma quickly wiped the little mech's mouth and optics before setting them on Wheeljack’s chest. A lesser doctor would have seen those beast indicators and panicked, even curled their nose in disgust. Pharma knew a newspark was a newspark, and this was Ratchet’s newspark.

“Oh,” Wheeljack whispered. Ratchet’s spark stuttered. They’d expected the notions of wheels on the frame, some sort of little vehicle. This spark's future had just become a whole lot more difficult, and that was a shock to a carrier’s already-struggling systems—

“Ratchet,” Wheeljack said, his hoarse voice cracking. One hand rested on the tiny helm, which had squished its cheek as close to the carrier's spark as they could. His optics glowed white, corners crinkled in an exhausted smile. “He’s perfect. He’s perfect.”

Ratchet relaxed. So they wouldn’t have to worry about that, because Wheeljack had more love to give than Ratchet had ever had in one hand.

Pharma’s lips were still pursed.

Ratchet realized he was trying not to look at him, because something was wrong, and it wasn’t that he had sired a future beastformer.

And no matter how many promises Pharma had wrung out of him, he couldn’t wait.

He only had to stand up to see how much energon was leaking, and it was easy to gently push past Pharma. He’d always been the bigger mech.

“Ratchet—”

“I can’t stand by,” he snapped, hoping Wheeljack didn’t hear the desperate edge in his voice. “Nitro administration?”

“Already held back,” Pharma said, resigned remarkably fast. “He’s got enough coming without more boosts.”

Wheeljack hissed as Ratchet pressed his hands on his middle, realizing he was overstepping, being stupid, and not caring at all. “Nurse, I need Flexi-Plex immediately.”

Their staff was rushing around, Pharma already injecting the clotting agent, and Ratchet kneaded, gently. There was a fine line between elevated leaking and full hemorrhage, and he wouldn’t waste even a second if he could nest the gestation chamber back in place first.

Their sparklet was wailing, unhappy about his new surroundings, and likely picking up on Wheeljack’s discomfort. Ratchet held, feeling components slip back into place. Next to him, a silent nurse bent to administer the stitches, but said nothing.

The leak slowed, then stilled. Their newspark cried on.

Ratchet smiled.

When he sat up, relaxed, Pharma threw up his hands.

“You’re going to have to explain jumping into a case with personal connections.”

Ratchet swept around him, to Wheeljack’s monitors, the corner of his optic always on the squirming newspark. “I would never pull rank, but I'm still the chief medical officer—”

“And you’re lucky we’re friends, you sanctimonious—”

“Doctors,” said the nurse. He had set his supplies aside, and Ratchet realized the other staff on call were peering from the doorway. “The newspark...it has a beast mode.”

To Pharma’s endless credit, his wings pricked up in distaste, his optics narrowed.

“They won’t be transforming for years yet,” he snapped. “This city might be Functionist, Catscan, but my delivery room is not.”

“This is my _child_ , and I’ll thank you to keep your stigmas to yourself,” Ratchet said. “I think that’ll be all from you.”

Catscan and the other nurses about fled, and Ratchet swore he heard transformation cogs engaging down the hall. Pharma sighed.

“You two will have to get used to that,” he said. His touch was gentle on the newspark’s back. “Ratchet, _sit_ with your conjux, for spark's sake. I'm going to do this one’s physical.”

Wheeljack’s optics were smiling when he sat back down. Suddenly a hand was on Ratchet’s shoulder, pulling him down, and the faceplate slid out of the way so Wheeljack could kiss him. He tasted like medical grade and exhaustion, but his engines hummed with satisfaction, close to Ratchet’s spark.

“I figured you’d do that,” he said, when they pulled apart. Their newspark was still squishing his faceplate into Wheeljack, even as Pharma took his vitals. Finally he picked him up, and the little mech wailed again. Wheeljack reached out with one hand, clearly on reflex. Ratchet kissed the side of his helm.

“Good strong vocalizer,” he said, a smile in his voice.

Wheeljack's grin was crooked. “He sounds like you in the lecture hall.”

Pharma chuckled, his energon tester clicking against their newspark’s wrist. Immediately the little mech’s crying upped its volume, Wheeljack stroking his helm in response.

“I’m surprised you weren’t more uncomfortable, carrying all this around,” he said. “Vitals all look good. I’d like to weigh him and give him a proper clean.”

“You can,” Wheeljack said, even as he pulled the little mech that much closer. That close to his carrier’s spark, he was already calming down. “In a bit. Spark-to-spark contact is everything, so you’ve said.”

Ratchet didn’t bother hiding his smile. “Letting the carrier rest with the baby is vital,” he said. “Given that complications were avoided—"

Pharma snorted, stepping back. “Which I would have handled, but, yes. Get some rest, _all_ of you, and I’ll come back later.”

Typically, a nurse could do the weighing and the bath, but Ratchet and Pharma had seen their shock at the sight of a little mech with claws. Their doctor was just as capable

Pharma made sure to bump Ratchet’s shoulder as he passed him and got his bag, and Ratchet even caught a grin as he went out the door. The lights dimmed, and that left the three of them.

They had hardly talked about names. Ratchet had been promised the ability to veto anything Wheeljack threw out, and if the _newspark_ changed his mind, it was his right to change it when he came of age.

“I think,” Wheeljack said softly. He wasn’t even looking anywhere but the newspark. “I’ll call him Patch.”

Ratchet opened his mouth to argue—and found he had nothing to say. Nothing negative, anyway, because it fit. If he outgrew one syllable one day, they’d be the first to help him find one he liked. For now, one small syllable seemed like plenty even for an oversized newspark.

“To patch up my iron spark?” Ratchet teased, stroking Wheeljack’s helm. His conjux snorted. “Afraid it’s irreparable.”

“No, because I like it, and I knew you would.” His optics were dimming, and Patch's had already slipped shut, sensing his carrier was ready to rest. They would be in tandem for awhile, if all was well.

“I'd also like for you to get some sleep,” Ratchet murmured. “You need it.”

“Heh. Don’t work while I’m out.”

Ratchet leaned back, shuttering his own optics. “Believe it or not, I don’t think I could.”

Even he was a little impressed with himself when he didn’t.

* * *

 

 

Patch had only been alive eight hours when trouble found him.

Ratchet had only stepped out long enough to get energon when he heard a low voice in the room, one not Wheeljack's or Pharma's.

And Wheeljack’s shout, which broke Ratchet into a run.

His energon cubes clattered to the floor and split open, and he found the room's door open.

Wheeljack was half off the berth, Patch clutched so closely Ratchet worried he’d dent the little mech’s plating. A doctor he didn’t know stood at the berth’s foot, arms outstretched.

That was a problem, because he the medical program’s dean, and knew every staff member in his hospital.

“We'd only like to take a look, sir—”

“I know what mechs like you would want with him!” Wheeljack snapped. His optics were bright and wild, the way any carrier frightened for their offspring would get. “You were taking him from me! Get out!”

Ratchet sent a furious, priority message to Pharma. And notified security, as he stepped between this mech and his family.

“Wheeljack, lay back down. And _you_ ,” he snarled, stepping closer. “You’re not authorized to be here, touching _my_ son or his carrier.”

Whoever this doctor was, he’d realized his mistake. He took a step back, towards the door, and Ratchet knew security would meet him the moment he started down the hall. Then he pulled a badge, and Ratchet’s spark constricted in range.

“I’m Flatline, here under order from the Functionist Council,” the mech said. His wheels were twitching in alarm, probably from the look of absolute fury in Ratchet’s optics. “They—want to know how it is two wheeled mechs produced a…beast.”

“My baby,” Wheeljack growled, “is not a _beast_.”

“I don’t care if Primus himself sent you up from his depths,” Ratchet said, advancing on Flatline. “Neither you, nor the Functionist Council, will get your hands on my son. So get out.”

“You’re the chief medical officer, but that doesn’t mean—”

“GET _OUT!_ ”

Flatline fled out the door, and immediately Ratchet turned towards Wheeljack, still only halfway on the berth. Patch, squirming, had started wailing, cheek squished against Wheeljack’s front.

Wheeljack finally sat down, and sighed shakily. “You made him cry.”

Ratchet growled, even as he stroked Wheeljack’s helm fin. “Sorry. That mech—”

“Tried to take him while I was recharging,” Wheeljack said. A shiver rippled through him, and Patch shuddered in turn. “Thought I wouldn’t notice.”

Flatline was probably a doctor from an outskirt town, with no carrier experience. Anyone half decently trained in sparkology knew what a carrier bond meant, and how it was just as strong after emergence as during the carriage.

He’d kill him, but he had priorities. He’d let Pharma do it instead.

“Wheeljack?! Are you alright?”

When he was worried about his patients, Pharma could look sufficiently compassionate. When he was angry about the _treatment_ ofof hishis patients, he was downright likable.

“We’re fine,” Wheeljack said, though he held Patch just as close. “Looks like I might make this little guy some defenses before I planned too.”

Pharma sighed. “Someone can familiarize you with the regulations. Security's apprehended him, but he says he’s from the Functionist Council, so…”

Ratchet tried not to snarl. Flatline would be released, but because of Ratchet’s particularly high status, his anomaly of a newspark wouldn’t come to harm. He straightened up, setting his jaw.

“Thank you, Pharma,” Ratchet said. “I’ll just help Wheeljack settle him, then.”

Pharma snorted. “I’m afraid sires don’t get useful again until the carrier can put their newspark down.”

Wheeljack chuckled, more half heartedly than Ratchet would like. “He hasn’t outlived his usefulness yet.”

Pharma left them, and Ratchet set to putting Wheeljack and Patch back into the berth until Wheeljack rested a hand on his chest, and shuffled in himself.

“Poor kid,” Wheeljack murmured. “He won’t have it easy. Worried he got that from me.”

“I don’t think he got _claws_ from you,” Ratchet said. At least, he didn’t think he did.

But of course he knew what Wheeljack meant. He rested his hand over Wheeljack’s, over Patch’s back. He tried to make his sparkpulse restful, and pleasant to be around.

His family drifted off. For some reason, he couldn’t sleep.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet and Wheeljack grow their family. A lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting a year! I was working on it, I'm just busy. Here's a baby parade.

Pharma laughed when he saw the scans.

“Well,” he said, grinning wide as he turned the instrument to show Ratchet. “I know you can handle it this time.”

He didn’t like that gleeful glint in Pharma's optics, and when he saw the little blue line entwined with his sparkpulse he knew where things were going. Ratchet huffed, and hoped he didn’t sound too pleased.

They had planned Patch, because it had seemed right to have a newspark. Ratchet’s spark ground should have been perfect, rewiring enough energy away to keep it from happening again unless he so chose it.

“They’re not one hundred percent,” Pharma said, apparently reading his mind. He raised an optic ridge, looking up at Ratchet over his datapad's edge. “Especially in cases of high interface rates. _Very_ high.”

“And of course it's your business now,” Ratchet groused, wishing there was something in range to clock Pharma's head with. “You're treating me. Scrap.”

Pharma flicked his wingtips up at Ratchet, optics bright and gleeful. “If you recall, I have firsthand experience of your _experience_ from back in the day. Of course, this is only professional now. You’re my patient.”

Ratchet found his hand over his spark chamber without really thinking about it. “And happy to be. Better this than the myriad of other things.”

Pharma flashed him a grin. “I trust you to know the drill intimately. So do try not to be an insufferable aft during our time together.”

Ratchet left with a bag full of supplements, and a date for his next check-up. Driving home, Patch was on his mind—their infant Patch, before his systems had started showing their upgrades and his armour had hardened up. He was still small enough to be hoisted up in Ratchet's arms, but he was heavier, and the proto-claws on his shoulders were sharp enough to scratch. His denta were still sharper _,_ but his grin was still a child’s.

When the door to their apartment slid open, he could hear Patch’s chatter from the room over. Then a pause, and the sound of small feet hitting the floor.

“Sire! Hi!”

Ratchet always had to chuckle a bit when Patch would launch himself at his legs, because no one in history had ever been this happy to see Ratchet. He hefted Patch up, then flipped him upside down.

“Well, hello,” Ratchet said, over his son's delighted shriek. He would have to hold off on this when the frame construction started, but for now the spark wasn’t pulling too much energy away. “How was school? Were you good?”

“Yes!” Patch said, kicking his small legs.

“Really good?”

“Yes! Really!”

The worst Patch’s instructors could say about him was that he was bossy, liking to be in charge of what the other little ones did. Right now it was just creche, so he had no shortage of playtime to order the other kids around in. Ratchet lived in fear of the day he might want to use those sharp teeth, or his size, because he was still bigger than anyone in his little class. The Functionists kept a close optic on them now. Patch was happily unaware, but his behaviour could be used against him. _Aggression_ was the top cited reason the anti-beast mode crusaders used to oppress and discriminate.

They never had figured out how a little beast former had been born from a speedster and an ambulance. Ratchet was planning a paper on CNA likelihood sometime. When Patch was older, and would rather his embarrassing parents were away from him more often.

When Wheeljack appeared, Ratchet righted Patch and set him down. He clung to Ratchet’s leg anyway, and his sire didn’t have the spark to shake him off.

Raising his brows Wheeljack’s way, he gently lifted Patch's chin. “I have a question for you.”

Right away his sparklet straightened, red optics bright. “Yeah?”

Wheeljack was smiling under his mask, but it was questioning. “Do you, now?”

Ratchet only grinned down at the sparklet. His annoyance from earlier, his surprise at the failed ground, had quickly given way to a familiar excitement. He should have expected his spark to feel so warm about the whole thing. They'd been here before.

“How would you like to be a big brother?” Ratchet asked.

Patch paused, and Wheeljack’s fins flashed pink, then blue-white.

“Are you…thinking about making him one?” he asked, his hands clasped tightly together.

Patch bounced on his heels. “Yeah! Okay!”

Ratchet touched his spark chamber's seam. His grin made Wheeljack's fins tinge pink again, expectant and bright. “He’s going to be. I found out today.”

Then Wheeljack was up against him, mask sliding away to kiss him and his grin blinding bright as they pulled apart.

“I guess we’re off plan,” he said, where Patch couldn’t hear.

“I guess,” Ratchet said, his spark humming. “And I’m glad the ground failed.”

“Glad the what failed?” Patch asked, tugging Ratchet’s hand. “When am I gonna be a big brother?”

“About ten lunar cycles from now,” Ratchet said. Patch huffed, because he had so few years to his name that such a time frame seemed like forever. “I know you’re not patient.”

“I’m _not,_ ” Patch agreed firmly, making Wheeljack chuckle.

“I'm going to tell your carrier some boring doctor stuff,” Ratchet said. “Can you run and wash up, and we’ll have energon?”

Patch took running literally, dashing past his parents to the washrack. Nothing crashed or shattered, so Ratchet let himself crack another grin at Wheeljack.

“I’m not far along,” he said, sending his conjux the scans. “Nothing too clear yet.”

Wheeljack rested both hands against Ratchet’s chamber, as if he could feel the spark hum. “People are gonna talk,” he said cheerfully, like it was a good thing. “We’re so soon after Patch, and with his protoalt what it is.”

“They can talk all they want, I still won’t care,” Ratchet said. “This one will probably have wheels, anyway. Patch was an…interesting exception.”

“Well, he’s our exception,” Wheeljack said, patting Ratchet’s spark seam. “And! This one will be yours. Ours, but _yours._ ”

Wheeljack had visibly enjoyed being on the carrier bond, as most new parents Ratchet had treated did. There was a warmth that apparently couldn’t be replicated, where a newspark hadn’t quite become their own mech and depended on their carrier for care and cues. Patch had spent his first few weeks pressed firmly against his Wheeljack's chest, and had let Ratchet get to know him only slowly. Some sparks were more relaxed with who held them after emergence—and then a few wailed if their carrier so much as stopped touching them.

Wheeljack pressed their foreheads together, the metal clicking softly. “Try and take it easy. I know the Prime is sick—“

“The Prime has plenty of doctors besides me,” Ratchet said quickly. “I only have to work _somewhat_ hard.”

Zeta's charts looked bad, and they’d looked it since Patch was learning to talk. Ratchet’s staff was perfectly capable, and he’d still be on call till the end. Being a homebody didn’t suit him.

Wheeljack’s optics glinted, teasing. Slagger must have read his mind.

“I seem to recall being asked to stop work pretty early,” Wheeljack said, not a hint of bite in his voice. “The Doctor of the Primes can't be spared, though.”

“Pharma can tie me to a medical berth if he’s concerned,” Ratchet said. He kissed Wheeljack’s finial, and stepped back. “I’m starving. And energizing for two, now.”

Too late, because they startled at the sound of an energon cube clattering to the ground, and the subsequent splash.

“Sorry!” Patch called. Ratchet only sighed. “I was getting your dinner!”

Wheeljack chuckled, and went ahead. Soon they’d have to get used to double that.

* * *

 

 

Zeta wasn’t happy, but these days Zeta was never happy.

“Another one, eh?” he said, as Ratchet took his fuel pressure. Too high, again. “Inconvenient. I’ll have to vet substitute physicians again.”

“As I’ve always assured you, my Lord Prime,” Ratchet said, working hard not to grit his teeth. “My hospital team is perfectly equipped. If they weren’t fit to treat you, I wouldn’t hire them.”

“Mhm,” Zeta said. “I suppose I’m a creature of habit, doctor.”

“Aren’t we all.” Everything about Zeta Prime's charts was concerning, and the dread in his spark over it was high contrast with the warmth from his carriage. Their Prime wasn’t thriving, but it hadn’t been all that long since he had taken the Matrix. His illness was sudden, because Ratchet had overseen his health for the role himself.

“I’ll see you again when the results come in,” Ratchet said. “I’ll also up your pressure tablet dose by half a pill. We’ll have to discuss injections if we see no improvement.”

Zeta only huffed. Ratchet was waved off without so much as a goodbye, but he expected that. One's status lowered when their offspring was a beast.

His staff and his friends, they were more polite. The right congratulations and polite conversation about Patch getting a younger sibling, and how their little apartment would soon need an upgrade.

But they were also all wondering what this one be, all unspoken. It would be easy to pass off Patch as a fluke, a strange glitch in natural CNA.

Ratchet patted his spark chamber on reflex. If this little one had wheels, he wouldn’t love them more than their sharp toothed brother. But they _would_ have it easier.

Pharma reminded him that you couldn’t tell the alt mode from the scans.

“Even if you could,” he said primly, “I wouldn’t _tell_ you. I’m happy if they’re as fine and healthy as Patch.”

“Likewise,” Ratchet said, even if the worry gnawed at him. Their circle had quickly gotten used to the little mech, and his creche was downright loving, but right now he was cushioned from real life.

Pharma gave Ratchet’s helm a tap. “Hey,” he said. “Fretting is bad for the spark. And Zeta can speak to _me_ if he takes issue.”

There was a reason Pharma wasn’t the Prime's chief medical officer. It wasn’t his qualifications, and it wasn’t just that he didn’t want to. He’d be fired in ten minutes for lip, an image Ratchet considered fondly.

“You’ll feel the frame construction start any day now,” Pharma said. “A smaller frame than Patch, from the sounds of that spark. I don’t expect problems.”

“But we’ll watch for them,” Ratchet murmured. All the literature about carrier bonds couldn’t plant in your head the feeling of it forming in your peripheral, your life force pulled taut and accommodating something entirely new.

“I’m not _new_ here,” Pharma said, stepping away. “Anyway, your frame is bulkier than Wheeljack’s, as well as the spark being smaller. I’m confident that with proper supplements you can get on with your life.”

“I’ll work as long as I can,” Ratchet said, stretching and standing from the berth. Pharma grinned.

“You can’t preside over your own emergence, at least,” he said. “You can work as long as your readings are strong. Now, get out, I have other patients.”

Pharma was right—he usually was. Ratchet’s carriage progressed smoothly, and he rarely felt different enough to do more than shorten his shifts.

He felt _good_ , actually.

“You’re so cheerful these days,” Wheeljack purred, more than halfway through. “Carriage looks good on you.”

“It feels good,” Ratchet said. He grinned, as Wheeljack’s arms came around from behind. “Like a different mech, even. Good thing it’s temporary.”

Wheeljack chuckled. “I was sleepy all the time and my spark casing itched. You got a better deal.”

“We’ll see,” Ratchet said. He said it often now, with this spark on his own and everything uncertain. Strange that he was so unbothered by that.

Carriage passed without a hitch, besides the Prime’s icy demeanor. He wasn’t well, and that certainly didn’t help, but Ratchet knew it would have been no better if Zeta was in perfect health. Convention said they should have _sent Patch away_ before they tried to _replace him_. The thoughts left such a bitter taste that he kept his big news to himself at work.

Well, mostly.

“Another?” Perceptor asked nervously, at the university. “I’m impressed, Ratchet. Patch is…a handful.”

Ratchet grinned. Perceptor was terrified of children, something Patch getting older hadn’t cracked and might never fade.

“Unplanned,” he said. “But welcome. We’re keeping it _quiet,_ though, besides close friends.”

“Of course, of course,” Perceptor said quickly, as if he was anywhere near a gossip. “Here’s hoping all is according to plan, dear Ratchet. Don’t work too hard!”

They both knew what that meant. Even in peaceful times of his day, at home with Wheeljack and after Patch was in recharge, Ratchet would rest a shaky hand on his middle and try to will an alt mode into his offspring.

_We’re going to love you, but try to have wheels. Even wings will suffice, just—no claws._

That twinge followed his spark all through the frame formation, his appointments, his send-off from work before the emergence. Through Wheeljack’s reassurances. Through that first deep contraction, when Wheeljack nearly jumped for joy and Patch's hug goodbye was worried.

He had known it would hurt, of course. He’d overseen enough emergences not to have some wistful idea of venting through it.

But his newspark was so _small._ How could it feel so like it was a full sized mech bursting out was unfathomable, now that he was the one resting his forehead on the berth's edge.

“He shouldn’t be lying down?” he heard Wheeljack ask. Ratchet didn’t look up, biting back a groan as the wave of pain rocked through him.

“Whatever’s more comfortable for him,” Pharma said. “That position is a friend to gravity, and things are moving along. Ratchet, you’re doing well.”

“I’d better be,” Ratchet growled. That little scrap had better be as lovable as Patch, because he could already feel grumpy, quick tempered Doctor Ratchet returning. His current students would be mourning _that_ change by their final exam.

“Not long now,” Wheeljack said, infuriatingly cheerful. “Keep that deep venting up! And listen to Pharma.”

“A good sire,” Pharma, said, pleased, at the same time as Ratchet’s growled “I know how it all works.”

He knew Pharma was rolling his optics—doctors were all the worst patients—but Ratchet shut his mouth and measured time in contractions. Wheeljack’s warm hand was on his back, and Pharma's words went to his audial, though he didn’t hear them.

“One more, one more,” he heard Pharma say, and Ratchet’s engine roared a growl in its effort. This _was_ hard, and he’d have to give all those delicate Senators due credit for how hard they worked at emergence—

—There was a cry, and there he was.

“Wings and claws,” Pharma said, over the wailing. He sounded resigned, but Ratchet hardly heard him. Who cared about claws? Had Ratchet and Wheeljack ever cared?

It couldn’t matter. His spark burst out warm, towards his offspring, and he slumped against the berth. Wheeljack about squealed.

“They’re _tiny!_ Perfect!” he exclaimed, as Pharma handed Ratchet his son. The little scrap _wailed_ , clearly unhappy with his new arrangement, and the loveliest thing Ratchet had ever heard.

“Hush, Swoop,” Ratchet said. “It’s alright. Same spark, new place. It’s alright.”

Everything went well. Very well, and if Ratchet had been his own doctor he’d have been satisfied with this outcome. They were released the next day, with a shuttle, and Ratchet held Swoop under his chin, listening to his spark's tiny hum.

Patch made their worries melt away. Ratchet watched him frown in concentration—then light up, his optics blazing.

“He’s like me!” he exclaimed, and Ratchet's spark swelled so brightly that Swoop huffed in satisfaction. “With claws!”

“You can hold him,” Ratchet said. “Sit there, we'll help you.”

Wheeljack’s fins were orange with glee as Ratchet handed the newspark to Patch. They both adjusted his hold, and Ratchet left one hand resting on the thermoblanket.

“Was I this tiny?” Patch asked. Ratchet smiled.

“Bigger,” he said. “Swoop here is on the small side.”

“Well, I’ll keep him safe until he’s big too,” Patch said brightly. “I want to play with him. Hurry up and grow, Swoop!”

 _But not too fast,_ Ratchet thought. The other one had been this small so recently. How was he sitting here holding this new one and talking?

Patch's enthusiasm helped things along, and Ratchet couldn’t catch a hint of jealousy from their oldest. He wanted to hold the baby, help feed him, watch him sleep. He went off to school as happily as ever, but his first question upon coming home was always about Swoop.

They started to relax.

So Ratchet damn near turned and ran when he brought his sons for their appointments, and saw the priest.

“Who's that?” Patch asked, bold as ever.

“A…guest,” Pharma said, after a long moment. He jerked his head towards the mech, helm covered by a visor and his shoulders draped in cloth. “A Primal priest, Patch.”

“We’re going, then,” Ratchet said sharply. His grip tightened on Patch’s hand, and he held Swoop close against his spark. He must have looked more fearsome than he felt, because that damned priest flinched at his gaze and looked at the floor. Still, he knew the rules, and his job, and that priest’s holy duty was to step in front of the only safe exit.

“It’s him or the cops, Chief Medical Officer,” Pharma said through gritted teeth. “I’ve been assured he'll only observe.”

“Simply due to your unique circumstances,” the priest said, in that soft voice all Primal attendants tried to maintain. “Yours and your conjunx endura’s alternate modes should not be producing…atypical offspring.”

Patch now understood that this person was frightening and didn’t like his claws. He had already met people like this, as well as his parents tried to shield him. He inched closer to Ratchet’s leg, and Ratchet resisted the urge to step in front of him.

“I can tell you that non-vehicle alternate modes are quite common,” Pharma said loudly. “I have delivered plenty of newsparks with their features.”

“Primus-given, as you’d say,” Ratchet said. His words were clipped.

The priest's visor flickered. “They are simply lower on the Taxonomy,” he said, Ratchet’s spark flaring so angrily that Swoop made an unhappy sound. “It is unusual. I will observe their examination.”

Pharma motioned to the table, because there was nothing else they could do. If Ratchet did not have a hand on one of his children throughout the exam, then Pharma did, and even the newspark was quiet as they went through the usual checks. Patch said nothing either, staring around Ratchet's arm at the priest.

“Well,” Pharma finally said quietly. “Swoop is moving right along. Patch is the picture of health. And you're being a good little mech?” he asked, glancing at Patch and clearly trying to sound relaxed. “Doing what your parents ask?”

Patch, still staring at their _guest_ , nodded once. Ratchet gathered Swoop back up, and nodded curtly towards the door.

“My children’s exams are done. May I go?”

The priest, now silent, nodded. He clearly wanted to leave himself, shifting uncomfortably on his feet under Ratchet’s bright gaze. He had made notes (about what? Pharma examining a child?) but had otherwise not spoken, or interfered.

Ratchet didn’t need to be told twice, and Pharma followed him out behind them. Pharma’s office was on the top floor, for easy takeoffs, and Ratchet was relieved to see the priest had made no move to follow them out of the exam room. When Pharma had double locked his door behind them, Ratchet’s shoulders slumped.

“They’re getting a piece of my damn mind,” Pharma snarled, so fiercely that Patch shrunk back against Ratchet’s legs. “Let me just pack up. I’ll follow you home.”

Ratchet wanted to tell him the idea was ridiculous, that he could get them home himself, but he didn’t refuse Pharma, who watched them get into their door.

Wheeljack knew not to make a fuss when he got home. Not in front of Patch, who was already revved up and worried.

“Let's have a bath and get some recharge, huh?” Wheeljack said, as he took his little hand. A carrier's mech straight through, and Ratchet was starting to relax again when they tucked Patch in.

“Are we low on the Taxonomy?” he asked, when Wheeljack flicked off the light. They both went stiff. In Ratchet’s arms, Swoop squirmed.

“It doesn’t matter,” Wheeljack said after a moment. “The Taxonomy isn’t worth the ink they wrote it with. You’re safe with us, that’s what matters. Okay?”

“Okay,” Patch said quietly. Ratchet’s spark ached for the note in his voice. “Goodnight.”

“’Night, kiddo.”

They were quiet the rest of that night, soothing Swoop and watching a holofilm they would forget. They didn’t need to talk about the stupid Taxonomy, or Ratchet’s pounding spark. They knew.

And they’d still have to go back to work, and purse their lips when mechs whispered about their children. So there was no reason to mope about it.

Good luck to whoever tried to take Ratchet’s little sparks.

* * *

 

 

Pharma didn’t laugh this time, as he handed Ratchet that familiar scan. Wheeljack’s fins were yellow in his effort to keep it together, flickering like newspark pulses.

“Congratulations, sir,” their dear doctor said, completely deadpan. “Your newspark application was approved without issue due to your _extensive_ _experience_.”

Ratchet laughed instead, as he traced their third offspring’s lifeline with his hand.

“Honestly,” Pharma groused as he turned away. “Mark my words, you’re going to regret this when you have three code-riddled newbuilts in your apartment, making sense of their upgrades.”

Wheeljack squeezed Ratchet’s arm, not the least bit affected by Pharma. “We’re going to have to move again soon,” he said, his optics all amusement.

“Not yet,” Ratchet said, spark humming. “Swoop can share with the new one.”

When they were off the spark a little, of course. It had been for Swoop's own good to talk up his own berth, and kiss him goodnight to leave him alone for recharge, but Ratchet missed that soft tug on his life force.

The problem would come if they had claws too.

Wheeljack had had the same thought. _Legally, they have nothing to stand on._

_I’m not worried about the law._

Pharma was pragmatic, but Ratchet was confident he would march up to the Primal antechamber himself to keep his patients safe. Even if, one day, those patients became four-legged, toothed and clawed taxonomy-defiers.

And Ratchet would keep them safe, even without claws of his own.

He knew the drill this time, though this forming frame seemed to tire him more than Swoop had. Bigger, probably. He started working half-days sooner this time, and his younger staff kept trying to pull out chairs for him, or bring him hot energon.

Cute, but unnecessary.

“Will you bring this one in?” Remedy asked hopefully one morning. Ratchet liked Remedy, even if she was too green and too clumsy. She had never looked at his sparklets like they were less.

So Ratchet smiled. “I think so,” he said. “For office work, anyway.”

“I bet Swoop’s getting so big,” she said, grinning like he was her own little cousin. “And his wings must have hardened up.”

Normally Ratchet would put an immediate stop to on-shift chatter, but Wheeljack had pointed out that carriage seemed to relax him. If he wasn’t doing key neurosurgeries or working full days, he could allow himself to be _somewhat_ more restful. It was good for the newspark—and for Swoop, still on the edge of his own bond.

“He’s in proper armour, yes,” Ratchet said, failing to hide his smile. “I’ll need you to get this to Medix upstairs, now.”

If he hadn’t had a new life on his spark, he might have barked that order. As it was, a smiling Remedy grabbed her files, chirped a “yes, doctor!” and was on her merry way.

Swoop would like to hear the nurses liked him. Maybe he already knew, the way some of his staff fussed and snuck the kids goodies. He was getting ready for his rounds when his comm beeped. The emergency line, one reserved for Zeta.

“Scrap,” Ratchet muttered.

Oh, sure, it was an honour to serve his Prime. All that and a bag of cyberchips. He and Zeta had generally been professional to one another, and Ratchet had let the snide remarks towards lower classes, lower alt modes slide. He had opened up more Senate viewings, after all. There was talk of reinstating the position of Lord High Protector, the people’s elected office.

Ratchet had stopped playing nice around the time Zeta had asked how the _animal_ was. He stayed professional, yes, to keep that little animal safe, but he was aware he was being watched more closely. If he snapped, he couldn't think of what would happen to their layer of protection.

Zeta had apologized, hopefully of his own accord, but probably at an advisor's behest. Ratchet had the good fortune of being too good to lose, but maybe it would be worth hiring an extra guard shift for home. Ironhide would know where to point him.

To his surprise, the ping wasn’t from Zeta himself. Not even from Glide, his main assistant, or the captain of the guard.

 _A shuttle will be here for you shortly_ , came a frightened medical line. _Be ready._

The shuttle guards didn’t know any more than Ratchet. One of them shrugged, chewing his lip.

“We were just ordered to get you,” he said. “But it’s bad.”

“Of course it is,” Ratchet groused. The brat on his spark kicked the whole ride there.

Ironhide met him at the palace gates. From the thin line of his mouth, Ratchet knew the young mech was wrong: they did not, in fact, _have this._

“Spark guttered not three minutes ago,” he said. Thank Primus for that old grouch, who never pulled punches. “They’re trying to bring him back, but you know how it—”

Ratchet did, but he was still the chief Primal medic. He shoved past Ironhide to rush inside, past the next two rounds of posted guards.

There was nothing he could do. The slow collapse of Zeta Prime's spark had finally hit a point of no return, and it had snuffed out entirely in his own berth. If Zeta had been in hospital, perhaps, in immediate reach of powerful ICU machines and a team of dozens, there _might_ have been a chance. But it would have been a prolonging of his suffering.

Two priests were humming that old prayer of theirs, painting the death-marks. Ratchet could see Zeta's spark chamber half-hidden, the scorch marks already telling their story within. The nurse, a terrified looking young mech, appeared in front of Ratchet.

“We need—” He paused, and took a shaking invent in. Ratchet resolved to submit a report very much in this kid’s favour, because there was nothing he could have done. “We need you to get the Matrix. Of course we’ll continue to catalogue vitals, but—”

“Thank you,” Ratchet said quickly, moving forward again. “Stop searching for vitals, they’re not there. Put together the five days of medical history, though.”

“Yes, sir. Yessir!” Ratchet set his bag down, and looked upon a dead Prime for the third time.

None of this was unexpected, after Zeta’s years with spark trouble and fluctuating systems. Still, like Sentinel, he hadn’t been Prime long, and that meant there might be a power struggle incoming. Ratchet had hoped Zeta could be reasonable and pick a successor, but the parent of two bestial alt modes was not allowed to advise on such things.

The job itself was straightforward. Of course he had died, with such terrible readings. Ratchet didn’t feel a mournful ache, or even a twinge.

Zeta was Prime. A holy figure, carrier of the Matrix. But Ratchet had carried, and sired, mechs Zeta Prime called _animal._

He still did his job better than anyone, which meant he couldn’t falter. The procedure to remove the Matrix was simple enough, if you had done it before and already knew it would melt the paint on your hands. The autopsy was straightforward, because Ratchet already knew what had caused the problem.

It was a shame Zeta’s condition hadn’t been caught before he was anointed. A few weeks later and Ratchet would have found the fuel pump beginning to disintegrate, and Ratchet's previous exam would have been rescinded. Someone with good health might have been chosen instead.

Ratchet bit down his resentment. He did his job, as he always did.

Wheeljack met him at the door of the apartment. Before Ratchet could speak, Swoop was pushed into his arms, his grizzled cry turning soft so close to the spark.

“Ironhide called,” Wheeljack said grimly. “It certainly didn’t make this one feel better, did it, Swoop?”

Swoop sniffed, and shook his head. Ratchet stroked his helm as Wheeljack closed the door, and he thought about that comfortable chair by the holoscreen with the reclining back. He had been on his feet longer than he’d want a carrying patient to be.

“Well, it’s done now,” Ratchet said, _finally_ sitting and resting Swoop against his front. A last gasp of this old carrier bond, from all the distressed feelings. “I’ll have a little time to myself, till they pick the next one.”

“Zeta didn’t pick a successor?” Wheeljack asked, surprised. Ratchet sighed.

“Of course not. He was too stubborn to think he would actually succumb.” Ratchet had tried to warn him about spark burnout, how at that stage there was simply pain management, but Zeta had shaken his head. Surely they would find a way, for a Matrix-blessed mech such as himself.

Wheeljack sighed, and leaned his head on Ratchet’s shoulder. “It’ll be nice for you to get a rest. I’ll try to get some time off.”

“Maybe we'll knock you up again,” Ratchet murmured. “Really keep you resting.”

“Very funny,” Wheeljack said, helm fins flashing in amusement. “Let’s finish _your_ carriage first.”

Ratchet rested, as much as someone like him could. He still taught his classes, and Swoop was safe in creche as the carrier bond faded. He kept drawing up those plans for that free clinic, down in Rodion. Patch was thrilled to have Ratchet pick him up from school rather than go to after-class care. Not that Ratchet could do much chasing of the little mech, now that his newspark was growing and wanted Ratchet lying down as often as they could manage. Still, Swoop was good natured and getting his independence, and Patch could go on forever about being a big brother.

“They move all the time,” Patch said cheerfully. He paid no attention to the news, but for once Ratchet was glued. Patch rested on him, helm against his middle.

* * *

 

“I have news for you,” Optimus said.

In his arms (well, hands, he was huge), Slash yawned, and cuddled up closer. Either her bond would be lax, or the Matrix was just that gentling. Ratchet reached out, stroking his newborn’s back. Her protoclaws.

“If it’s politics, I’m on leave,” Ratchet said. “A Primal visit is still a visit to my hospital room.”

He knew Optimus was smiling under his mask, his hands rocking Slash just slightly. “You will want to hear this, Ratchet.”

Ratchet had to suppress a chuckle, because that bond was still strong enough to make him restful. “Spit it out, then. You look pleased about it.”

“I’ve made sparked mechs alt-mode exempt.”

Ratchet stared. Maybe he had misheard, exhausted and sore as he was, but his audials wouldn’t have been the thing he should worry about. Maybe he’d finally lost his head from the carrier programming.

“Alt mode exempt,” he repeated. “From…this point on? Are you serious?”

The edges of Optimus’s optics were crinkled in a wide smile. “All sparked mechs currently not of age. So all three of yours, Ratchet. And many more.”

That was—

Unheard of. No beast mode had ever been exempt, no matter how high born. Ratchet had heard stories of more than one thrown aside in favour of waiting for a “proper” child, one they wouldn’t have to pay extra to educate or make accepted.

Now they would never have to worry about that. Every right, every freedom of the upper class, would belong to his sparklets.

He wondered how many applications for newsparks would be accepted, knowing the lower classes' children would have an outcome like _that._

“The Senate,” Ratchet said slowly, “is going to be in fits.”

“No doubt,” Optimus said. Slash gripped his thumb and made a small sound, shifting as if to get comfortable. “It won’t be their last. But my steps have to be smaller, if I don’t want to get ousted. There’s much to be done.”

“Yes,” Ratchet said, more quietly. “I…this is your first major act as Prime? Something so radical?”

Optimus’s optics flashed more seriously. “Of course,” he said. “Revolution is out of the question. It would hurt too many. But reforms cannot be lip service.”

“Important mechs will hate you.”

“Let them.”

Optimus took one finger, running it gently down Slash's cheek. This wouldn’t end discrimination, certainly not…but it would make things a little easier. Finally, his Prime held Slash back out, but Ratchet to pull close.

“You could take her longer,” Ratchet offered, even as he pulled her close, her cheek pressed against his chest. Optimus shook his head.

“She should be with her carrier,” he said. “Not the Matrix imitation. But thank you for the honour of meeting her.”

From Zeta that would have been mocking. There was no honour in igniting sparklets with such low-born alt modes. Now _no one_ born, at least those sparked, would be low-born.

“Thank you,” Ratchet said finally. “Wheeljack will be…be thrilled. I’m not sure Patch knows what he should be worrying about, yet.”

“Your oldest,” Optimus said, nodding. “I’d like to meet him. We haven’t caught up in some time, Ratchet.”

Ratchet’s grin was crooked. “Not since you were Orion.”

Optimus chuckled. “Not that long ago, but we were both so busy. You’ll be seeing me weekly, now.”

“Yes,” Ratchet said, chuckling. Slash shifted, her tiny hand gripping his finger. “I hope you’re not squeamish, Optimus. Physicals are frequent for the most important mech on the planet.”

“Oh, no,” Optimus said. He reached out, pressing a gentle finger to Slash’s nose. She let out a peep, soft enough that Ratchet’s spark flared, reaching out towards hers in affection. “I’m nowhere near the most important. These new ones, though.”

It had taken five minutes for Optimus Prime to prove who he was. And Ratchet was honoured to serve him.

* * *

 

Life was more normal, after that.

As normal as it got, with three growing dinosaurs underfoot and his old, gentle friend the new Prime. Ironhide quietly posted one of his security mechs at the kids' school, for when the boys weren’t safe with their parents. Patch and Swoop remained mostly unaware of the danger they were still in.

Mostly.

“That priest,” Patch said once. Ratchet had been half in recharge (there had to be another spark squeezing against his) and instantly he was wide awake.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t remember that mech,” Ratchet grumbled. Patch was well into his secondary education, many vorns on, and they could already tell he would be far bigger than his parents. He looked far too grown up, staring down at Ratchet on the couch.

“I wasn’t _that_ young,” Patch said. “Like I was saying: that priest. Will he ever be back?”

“I don’t know,” Ratchet said honestly. Patch was too old for platitudes. “I doubt it, since legally they can’t touch you.”

“People don’t care about that,” Patch said, and Ratchet’s spark ached that he knew it. It didn't matter if he was old enough to. “I was just thinking about him. Soon Slash will know she’s different too.”

Ratchet cracked a smile. “Not different from her brothers,” he said, and Patch had to grin back.

“No,” he said firmly. “No, she’s not.”

Ratchet _was_ carrying again, and Wheeljack was as thrilled as ever. Pharma threatened to make him find a new doctor, but Pharma had no bite either, so he kept looking after Ratchet. Crash was born the next year, healthy as all the others. (They let Slash name her new little brother, and Ratchet and Wheeljack supposed he could change it later.) Claw followed soon after, and Pharma's tired threats made the whole thing feel like home.

“You’re not _exhausted?_ ” Rung asked him in astonishment, when Ratchet, once again, had a new infant in his office. “I swear you just had one that small.”

“Crash started daycare,” Ratchet said, the carrier bond softening his nature. Maybe that was what got him doing this so much. “Less intensive bond, and he was begging to start school. It's not as if I'm chasing the older ones so much.”

Grimlock—so recently Patch—was fully upgraded, and enormous. He had been for some time, if one was young, but Ratchet wasn’t. Optimus had quickly stopped making much of him on his visits, with other babies to coo over and this offspring of Ratchet’s well into the Academy. If any idiot started a war while _his_ son was serving, then they had better fear Ratchet. Swoop was buried in books, insistent that he would sit the pre-med exams early. According to the faculty who oversaw his application, Swoop would do well enough if he kept it up. Ratchet, after all, would have a conflict of interest if he oversaw his son’s grades.

He came back to himself and followed Rung’s gaze to Claw, where the newspark snored in his car seat. They didn’t stay babies, and maybe that was why Ratchet and Wheeljack liked having more around.

“Well, congratulations,” Rung said, flashing him a small smile. “Again. He’s a fine looking child.”

“He is that.” A fine little mech, with Wheeljack’s nose and an obvious proto-tail. Swoop claimed he didn’t have time to babysit these days, with school, and if they had to be out Slash was always mysteriously on the roof or out of the house.

Of course, there was the oldest.

“No, no, I want to be bothered,” Grimlock would say when he was home. (When had that low rumble become his voice?) He was always reaching for his little brothers, to hold or play with, and his red optics always held a smile when he did it. Some tough soldier he'd be.

“They couldn’t ask for a better brother,” Wheeljack would say, optics shining. Swoop, if he was out of his room, would snort.

“Yeah, because _Patch_ wouldn’t sneak up behind them and try to make them fly,” he’d say, tapping Grimlock on the helm.

“Not my name,” Grimlock replied, optics only for Claw. But he and Swoop had outgrown most of their spats. Thank goodness, because Swoop was a quarter his brother’s weight. “It’s true, though. After four goes around I’m not too bad.”

“Well, it might be the last time,” Wheeljack said. “Did you know we’re setting records? Most carriages in the same twenty stellar cycle span.”

Swoop snorted. “Some crazy Primal concubine has to have had more.”

“Not by separate carries,” Wheeljack said. “But five’s a nice solid number. _And_ we’re a bit old.”

He was right, of course. Ratchet, watching Grimlock rock Claw and feeling wonderful about it, warred with the mournful twinge in his spark. It turned out they were very good at offspring. He _liked_ (liked!) having newsparks in the house, liked carrying them.

And selfishly, Ratchet liked the horror of the upper echelons as their highest level doctor produced beast after beast, and their Prime adored and endorsed their existence.

“I won’t talk about the potential number six when your brother is not even six months old,” Ratchet snorted. “Give it a few stellar cycles.”

Swoop actually laughed at that, the brat. “I seem to recall less than one between Crash and Claw.”

“That was an _accident_ , you little—”

“I don’t want to hear about your _accidents_ ,” Grimlock groused. He bounced his oblivious brother in one arm. “Neither does poor Claw, do you?”

Ratchet was right, anyway. It was a few more stellar cycles before they discussed it. When they did, it was because Ratchet had swept a sleepy Wheeljack with a scan and found—

Another little spark.

Well, Ratchet had done it plenty of times in a row, and Wheeljack beamed even as Pharma rested his face in his hands.

“We’re at replacement!” Wheeljack protested, his optics flashing with glee at Pharma. “Grimlock is offworld, and Swoop's doing his residency! It’s _absolutely_ time for another.”

“You’re both crazy,” Pharma said, already drawing up the forms. He knew the drill. “People think you have issues at this point.”

“Oh, we do,” Wheeljack said. “Just not about this!”

Pharma still extracted a promise of spark grounds, for at _least_ an extended period. Ratchet was too pleased to mind much, because siring and looking after his partner scratched every caring itch he had.

“I forgot how _tired_ this made me,” Wheeljack groused often. This was compounded by the three younger ones in the place running and shouting, doing what children did (and that Ratchet was fondest of at a safe distance). Slash had to be bribed into watching her brothers and not a screen. Crash and Claw apparently hadn’t stopped moving since they found they could, light years away from the infants Ratchet had cradled. The adult two simply weren’t around to do babysit, and Ratchet’s patience was much shorter with anyone who spoke in full sentences. Why Grimlock had agreed to serve a tour offworld, he'd never know.

He made sure Wheeljack caught naps, even if Ratchet didn’t.

“They used to be _cute,_ ” Ratchet groaned, as Crash vaulted over the couch into his yelling little brother.

“We still are!” Claw said, from the headlock he was now stuck in. Ratchet snorted.

“Ask your sire that when he wakes up from his nap.”

Grimlock came back planetside when Wheeljack was close, charmingly worried. Over Wheeljack’s horrified “no, you won’t be _in there_ when I have it,” Ratchet convinced (begged) him to watch the younger ones with Swoop instead. Supportive would only go so far when Grimlock would be passed out on the floor in distress.

Swoop watched Claw try to somersault off the windowsill while this was going on. “Observing the birth might be easier, actually.”

And the new one was like his siblings, of course. Teeth, small claws, and odd protusions that almost could be wings. A big newspark, too, exhausting Wheeljack as much as that time an age ago.

“Run out of names?” Ratchet asked fondly, as Wheeljack let the infant chew on his fingers. “I’m not creative, but that’s your whole thing.”

He hadn’t recharged in days, but Wheeljack’s optics had that lovely, wild glint. “Paddles.”

“Oh, how—what? Paddles?”

Wheeljack’s fins flashed happy yellow as he waggled one of their son's protrusions. It was still almost soft, the living metal not quite armour. “Just look at them.”

Ratchet did, and couldn’t help but smile. Pharma was still chuckling the next day, filling out the forms.

* * *

 

“Wow,” Swoop said.

“You’d think you were used to the miracle of life or whatever by now,” Slash snorted. She knew what he meant, of course.

Ratchet smiled. He stroked his newest one’s tiny shoulders, the forming tire tracks on the soft rubber. It had been a good few vorns since he was here last.

“It’s strange holding a newspark _without_ claws,” he said, chuckling. That warmth from the new carrier bond might even last a week this time, which meant he’d be good natured until then. Hopefully his other offspring wouldn’t ask for anything ridiculous while he was willing to say yes.

Grimlock's optics were crinkled at the corners, flickering gently as he let his new brother take his finger.

“All round edges,” he said fondly. “You two figured out you could hook your claws into us real early.”

“I’m sure he can still bite,” Slash said cheerfully.

“I recall Grimlock doing both,” Ratchet said.

The younger three were at the Primal Palace, being “babysat” by Optimus himself (or by his attendants, more accurately, while Optimus worked and doted). The older three had waited dutifully for news, Wheeljack’s excited call about _wheels_ had brought them all running. Or flying.

“He's lucky, though,” Slash said. “No one will _think_ he’d bite anyone.”

It was matter-of-fact, not wistful, but Ratchet felt a twinge all the same. Optimus’s proclamation, right after her birth, had made her free and exempt. It hadn’t made things easier yet, because society and the law were not the same.

Unless you asked Prowl. Like he would.

Ratchet chuckled instead. “No one thought I could bite, my dear., and they were wrong.”

“Can I hold him?” Grimlock asked. As always, so early, Ratchet’s spark balked. But of course, he adjusted his hold on the newspark to rest him in Grimlock's arms. His oldest's engine rumbled with such delight that it was a little hard not to be emotional. None of the student residents had better go gossiping about old doctor Ratchet’s soft side, he’d say it right now.

“The wheels are soft,” Grimlock said. One clawtip gently traced along it, showing its give. The newspark huffed, but seemed to tolerate the treatment. His hand curled unconsciously around Grimlock’s finger.

“Will he be the last one?” Swoop asked, affecting the tone of a long-suffering mech. Ratchet grinned.

“Everyone asks, and every time we’re always so sure of the answer. So: I don’t know,” he said. “He’s the last _as of right now._ ”

Slash appeared next to his head, optics bright. “Can I name this one too?”

“Oh, we named him already,” Ratchet said. “Pharma says the Senate will be on fits over it.”

“Not sure about spite names,” Grimlock said.

Swoop snorted. “Better than whatever Slash comes up with.”

“I was seven vorns old!”

Ratchet held his arms out, and Grimlock quickly relinquished his little brother. Tucked safely against his carrier's spark, Ratchet traced his helm with his finger.

“In the interest of honouring new life,” he started, not hiding his smile, “And where it comes from—”

“Yikes.”

“ _Swoop._ ”

“It’s Hot Spot,” Ratchet finished. “Hot Spot of Iacon—something we haven’t had in some time, so they might as well be grateful.”

“That's lovely,” Grimlock said, his consternation at Swoop forgotten. It was hard to believe he was a military mech these days, with the gentleness he lavished on his siblings. Slash folded her arms.

“It's good,” she said. “I’m sure I could have thought up an _amazing_ one, though.”

Ratchet snorted. “I’m sure.”

Really, seven was an odd number to stop on. Certainly when they only had one child _with_ wheels, when he might get lonely someday, so unlike his siblings...

He would have to talk to Wheeljack.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one more part to this (whenever I finish it) but as always thank you for reading and your support! Here's a baby list as of chapter end
> 
> Patch/Grimlock: Grown up, soldier  
> Swoop: Grown up, medical resident  
> Slash: Teenager, video game aficionado  
> Crash (future Slag): School-age, troublemaker  
> Claw (future Sludge): School-age, co-troublemaker  
> Paddles: School-age, cutie  
> Hot Spot: Wheel baby
> 
> They're all canon ;) Thanks for reading this absolute nonsense, I love every second of it!!


End file.
